


Phoenix, Daring to Rise

by knittycat99



Category: Glee, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Acrobatics, Alternate Universe - Circus, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Flashbacks, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Polyamory Negotiations, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Summer, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knittycat99/pseuds/knittycat99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer is the changing time, a time for unexpected connections and for dealing with ghosts from the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is highly AU from both Glee and Teen Wolf; I've messed with the Glee timeline, and this is set a year after the events of season 3 of Teen Wolf. This is a WIP and will post, at the very least, once a week between Fridays and Sundays.
> 
> In this chapter, warnings for allusions to trauma, anxiety, and self-harm.

**Prologue**

_Employees work six days, with one day off each week.  There are many options for recreation and entertainment.  Employees have access to pool and beach, to bicycles, to all hiking and nature trails.  Explore the resort, take in a show at the local summer theater on the adjacent property, or even take a class from the Cirque Mirage, whose troop stays in residence every summer._

_- **Excerpt from the Granite Resort and Conference Center Employee Handbook**_

Stiles sorts and folds his t-shirts, packs them into his duffel bag, unpacks them, sorts them again.  He checks the stack ten times, puts it back into the bag, and turns his attention to his shorts.  He feels his father’s eyes on him, can almost _hear_ his dad counting in his head. 

“Stop, Dad,” he says in frustration.  “You think this is easier on me with _you_ counting, too?”

His father sighs in the doorway.  “They said the repetitive behaviors would ease, eventually.”

Stiles shrugs.  “I dunno what to tell you.  In exchange for being able to sit still, I get this.  I’m no longer possessed but I still have nightmares.  I think this is just how things are, now.”

“Which is why I want you to _relax_ this summer.”

“Relax by working six days a week.”

“Point.  But.  You won’t be _here_.  You won’t be helping me, or worrying about Scott or Lydia or . . .” his dad pauses and sighs again.  “You won’t be hunting and battling supernatural things and trying to save the world.”

“So it’s going to be a boring summer, is what you’re telling me.”

“Maybe, but maybe not.  I met your mom there, you know.”

Stiles stops in the middle of stuffing socks along the edges of his bag.  “No.  You never said.”

“Yeah.”  His dad hovers in the doorway, looking unsure about whether he’s welcome inside Stiles’ room or not.

Stiles nods at him and shifts both his bag and the last little pile of stuff he needs to fit inside, his jeans and his lacrosse hoodie and his running shoes, so that his dad can sit at the foot of the bed.

“She worked at the front desk, and I was a bus boy.  We were a little older than you are now.  I knew as soon as I met her that I was going to marry her.”

Stiles laughs a little bitterly.  “It’s a summer job, Dad, not a dating service.  And I highly doubt I’m going to find someone for me there.”

“You’re a smart, funny kid, and a royal pain in the ass.  What makes you think you won’t find romance?”

“You said it, not me.  I’m a smart, funny, pain in the ass.  What’s to love?”  Because no matter how hard he tries, Stiles just can’t find someone to love who loves him back.  He figures it’s got more to do with being a lot twitchy and a little PTSD-y than anything else, or it could be the curse of growing up in a small town.  It’s hard to find someone who doesn’t know you, who doesn’t remember every stupid thing you’ve ever done, from gluing Patty Higgins to her chair with papier mache paste in first grade to falling off the climbing rope in eighth grade PE. 

“Don’t think that about yourself.  You are loveable, Stiles.  You are _worthy_ of love, and I’ve seen how you are with Scott. When you love someone, you love them with your whole heart.  Don’t close yourself off from possibility because you’re scared.”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face.  “It’s kind of hard _not_ to be scared, not with all the sh- um.  _Stuff_.  That’s happened.”

“That’s why you need this break.”

Stiles feels like there’s more to it than _him_ needing the break.  He wonders, _has been_ wondering since his dad dropped the application packet to the Granite Resort and Conference Center in front of him at dinner in February, if his _father_ is the one who needs the break.  He wouldn’t blame him, not really. 

He just wishes the whole thing didn’t feel like exile.

**

Kurt rises from the haze of sleep to the bed dipping beside him.  He rolls over, stretches languidly, and tugs the sheet up a little higher over his bare hip. 

“Happy Birthday, K.”  Mike’s voice is rough from a combination of sleep, alcohol, and the smoke from the end-of-season bonfire.  He snakes his arm over Kurt’s waist and sets a plate with a single cupcake on the windowsill.  “Everyone else is planning a party for later, don’t tell them I told you.”

Kurt grabs Mike’s hand and kisses his knuckles.  “My lips are sealed.”  He nods at the cupcake, chocolate with a tower of vanilla frosting and chocolate sprinkles.  “Thank you.”

Mike stretches his long slender body out against Kurt’s back.  “Thank Millie.  I took my run down into town this morning and she sent that for you.”

“Mmm.  You do know you’re the only one still working out this morning, right?”

“I’m sure.”  Mike laughs lightly.  “Everyone else is too hungover.”

“It’s the first day of _vacation_ , Michael.  We’re allowed to slack off a little bit.”  Kurt reaches up and pulls Mike down to him for a kiss.  “I admire your initiative,” he whispers, soft and seductive against Mike’s lips.  “But everyone deserves a day off.”

“Uh huh.  Like you’re not going to be in the studio as soon as I let you out of my bed.”

“I have to be, if I don’t want my choreographer kicking my ass from here to Boston once we start working on the new routines.”  He paused for a moment, grinning up at Mike.  “Speaking of Boston.  I want to go down there before the season starts.  I want a new tattoo.”

“Hmm?”  Mike hums inquisitively and trails a finger up Kurt’s arm, tracing the coil of vines and cherry blossoms that winds a delicate path from his wrist to his shoulder. 

“Yeah.  I mean, a boy is only 21 once.”

“True.”  Mike kisses his shoulder, his neck.  Kurt tries to hold onto the thoughts about his tattoo, about the ride he’s getting to Boston on Thursday, about how it suddenly feels important to commemorate this birthday, but he’s distracted by Mike’s attentions.

He tries to squirm away.  “You always have known just how to make me lose focus.”

Mike presses his body hard against Kurt’s and nips at his collarbone.  “That’s what you get for hooking up with your oldest and best friend.  But consider that you know the same things about me.”

Kurt nods, unpins one hand, and strikes a direct hit just below Mike’s ribcage.  Mike writhes and Kurt cackles.  “Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

They kiss through laughing until they’re interrupted by a hard rapping on Mike’s door and Livia is calling to them both.

“I hope y’all are decent!  I’m coming in for the birthday boy!”

Kurt untangles himself from Mike and wraps the sheet around his waist.  He pads through Mike’s room, gathering his clothes before dropping the sheet.  “Stay in the hall, unless you want to see the birthday boy in his birthday suit!” he yells to her through the wood, shimmying into his jeans and tank top.  He stuffs his briefs into his pocket and grabs his keys off Mike’s bookcase.

Livia raps on the door again.  “Get your hot little ass in gear, Kurt!  If you want to go to Boston, we have to go today, and we have to do an airport run.  Jimmy’s still drunk off his ass and Sarah won’t let him drive.” 

He rolls his eyes at Mike, darting back to the bed for a quick kiss.  “I guess I’m going to Boston today,” he says.

“Have fun,” Mike whispers.  “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, yes you will.”  He opens the door to Livia and gives her a peck on the cheek.  “Good morning, beautiful.  Give me ten minutes.  Better yet, give me fifteen and I’ll buy you Dunkies on the way out of town.” 

Livia follows him up the hall to his own room, past the rooms that the other permanent members of the Cirque Mirage troupe stay during their summer residence.  The apprentices and seasonal performers share rooms on the first floor of the rambling old farmhouse, but everyone else has singles on the second floor.  Kurt loves his room; it’s the last one on the floor, tucked under the eaves, with a tiny little dormer window.  He can see the Meadow from there, and the studios, and a shining hint of the lake.  It’s small, but it’s his, and no matter how much Allan keeps pressuring him to give it up and just move in with Mike, Kurt refuses.  This room is his only home, and he’s not about to let it go.

He dresses quickly, ties a bandana over his hair, and brushes his teeth in his tiny sink.  He’s ready to go in 9 minutes.

“Let’s do this!” he says, wrapping his arm through Livia’s and practically dragging her down the stairs.

They walk up to the main resort building and stop in the office for keys to the shuttle.  “Who’re we picking up?” Kurt asks while Livia is signing the keys out.

“Some summer kid.  Simpson?  Stinton?  I don’t know.” Adrienne thumbs through some papers, scribbles on a post-it, and hands it to Kurt.  “Stilinski.  Stiles Stilinski.  Flight and cell numbers.  He gets in at 5.  _Don’t_ leave him stranded.”

“Don’t worry,” Kurt tells her.  “We’ll take good care of him.”

**

Stiles sleeps most of the way on the plane, no doubt helped by one of the little white pills his shrink prescribed to help with the anxiety that has only gotten worse in the last year.  He wakes somewhere over New York, or so the flight tracker on his tablet tells him.  He downs half a bottle of water, one of the granola bars from the stash in his backpack, and a second little white pill.  Then he hides in the hood of his sweatshirt and tries not to scratch the skin off his arms.

He fucking hates small spaces.

He jiggles his big toe inside his sneakers.  Chews on the inside of his lip.  Twists the cord of his hood around and around his finger over and over again, counting out wraps and experimenting with levels of tightness. 

He’s a fucking wreck.

When the plane touches down, dropping out of the clouds and skating along the runway dangerously close to the ocean, Stiles lets the _bumpity bumpity bump thud_ of the plane leech away some of his frantic energy.  He’s still got a couple of hours in a car ahead of him, and he’s nervous enough about finding the person who is supposed to meet him. 

Once he’s off the plane he stops, leans against a wall to gather himself, and takes his phone off airplane mode.  There’s a text message from a strange number waiting for him.

_Your welcoming committee from Granite Resort will be waiting at Door A6 on the arrivals level.  We’re in a hideous yet air conditioned shuttle van.  You can’t miss us. <3 Kurt and Livia_

**

Kurt is tired of sitting, tired of waiting, so he gets out of the shuttle and leans against the side, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest.  He watches the people leaving the arrivals doors, waiting for the mysterious Stiles.  He’s seen lots of kids come to the resort over the six years he’s been with Cirque Mirage.  They’re usually preppy, overly enthusiastic college kids who like to party on their off days and who usually stay far _far_ away from the circus troupe.  The kid who emerges from the doors blinking, looking like he’s been dragged behind a steamroller for miles, and heads over to the shuttle?  He _definitely_ doesn’t look like the usual college kids.

“Stiles?” Kurt asks, sliding his sunglasses up onto his head.

“Yeah.  You’re clearly not Livia, so you must be Kurt.”

Kurt holds his hand out, and Stiles takes it.  His palm is warm and dry and his fingers are twitching.  When he lets go of Kurt, he fiddles with the cuffs on his sweatshirt.  “I could have taken the bus, you didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Nah,” Kurt waves him off.  “The resort likes their employees to be met, and we were coming down anyway.  C’mon.”  He slides the side door open and motions for Stiles to climb in. 

As they navigate the dregs of weekend traffic out of Boston, Kurt watches Stiles in the rearview.  He can’t sit still.  His eyes are dark and sunken, and Kurt’s lived enough trauma to know what it looks like on someone else.  He doesn’t say anything, though, not with Livia sitting next to him chattering away about the sights they pass on their way.  Stiles just stares out the window.  Finally, once they merge onto 93, heading out of the city toward New Hampshire, he comes out of himself enough to speak.

“So what do you guys do?  Are you going to be restaurant staff too?” he asks.

Kurt laughs and shakes his head.  “Oh, us?  We’re the circus people.”

“Circus.  Right.  Like, lions and tigers and bears, oh my?”

“Like acrobats and trapeze and silks.”

Stiles nods.  “Okay.  Okay, that’s . . . that’s good.  No animals.  No animals is really, really good.”

“You have an aversion to animals that want to eat you?” Kurt teases until he sees Stiles go pale.  “Shit.  I said the wrong thing.  Sorry.  Unfortunate tiger incident in your past or something?”

Stiles fiddles again with his sweatshirt, tugs the hood up around his head.  “Something like that.  I’m really, um.  The plane.  I’m gonna- sleep.  I think I need to sleep.”

“Okay.”  Kurt flicks his eyes at Livia, catches her confused shrug.  Whatever.

Stiles is asleep before they hit the border, but even in the growing dusk Kurt can see that he’s not peaceful.  His face is twisted, and he’s curled in on himself like he’s protecting something precious. 

He and Livia make small talk while they drive, until Stiles starts yelling in the backseat.  “No, no!” he says, swatting at the air with his fists.  His eyes are wide open, but Kurt can tell he’s not seeing.  He isn’t even really awake.

“Keep driving,” he whispers to Livia before unbuckling his seatbelt and vaulting between the front seats to the back. 

He doesn’t touch Stiles, just starts talking to him, saying his name and reminding him where he is and that he’s safe.  “I don’t know what happened to you,” he says finally.  “It must have been awful, if you have nightmares and look like you haven’t slept in a year.  But you’re safe here.  You’re okay.”

Stiles doesn’t wake up, but eventually his breathing evens out and he closes his eyes, curling back up against the window.

Kurt sits the rest of the ride in the back of the van, watching this stranger who has caught his attention.

He’s very glad this won’t be the last he sees of Stiles for the summer.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings herein for panic attacks and thoughts of canon character death.
> 
> Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. I had unexpected extra hours at work, and I've been sick. But things are settling down now, so I should be back on track for weekly updates.

_Alcohol and drugs are strictly prohibited in employee housing.  We also maintain a no-fraternization policy.  Employees discovered violating any of these policies will be reviewed for termination._

_- **Excerpt from the Granite Resort and Conference Center Employee Handbook**_

Stiles shares a miniscule room with a buttoned-up architecture student from MIT named Robert.  Not Rob, not Bobby, Stiles is informed the first day, but _Robert._ Robert works at the front desk, spends his off-work hours with his girlfriend who works in housekeeping, and neither of them have any love lost for the kitchen workers.  For his part, Stiles manages to kind of kick ass at waiting tables.  He can wear a mask of affable innocence and charm with the best of them, and once he’s done with his training week he rakes tips in hand over fist.  His ability to tip out the bussers at more than ten percent means that when one of them procures pot in Boston or Manchester on their off days, they give Stiles a discount rate.

He knows the pot is a stupid idea, but it settles his brain in a way the Adderall never has, so he smokes a couple of times a week.

He’s always on the lookout for Kurt, but three weeks in he’s only seen him in passing twice, ships crossing in the dining room and outside the laundry room.  He doesn’t even know what he will say if they have a chance to talk again.

Robert catches him, the first morning of his fourth week, watching Kurt walk through the dining room like he owns it, hand linked with a tall and lanky Asian man.  They both move with the same ease of knowing each other like breathing that Stiles has – and misses – with Scott, but with an intimate undercurrent that screams _we’re not just best friends and should-have-been-brothers_. 

“They may _look_ interesting,” Robert says, leaning over the steam tray of rubbery scrambled egg product, “but they’ll eat you alive.  And besides, they’re _weird_.”

Stiles scoops a pile of eggs onto his plate; they’re palatable if he makes a sandwich with wheat toast and lots of butter.  “Where you come from, they might be weird.  Where _I_ come from, two guys together doesn’t hold a _candle_ to weird.”  He pokes at some underdone sausage with hot-to-touch metal serving  tongs before deciding against that much grease.  He takes a banana instead, and one of the pre-packaged bowls of cereal; Apple Jacks is all that’s left, it’s a good thing he’s not picky.

“It’s not that they’re . . . _gay_.  It’s the whole circus thing.  They all live together in this big old farmhouse on the way to the lake, and they have bonfires in the meadow.  Last summer a couple of the girls from the office went up, for the one they have at . . . Midsummer, I think they called it?  They said it was all drinking and drugs and sex.”

Stiles laughs loud and surprised, and almost drops his plate.  “So, not that different from the employees after all, huh?”

Robert just stares at him blankly.

“Never mind.”  Stiles tries not to let his brain run away with his mouth; he’s done well so far, but the words are out before he realizes it.  He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and mutters under his breath.  “It’s not _rocket science_.” 

 “I think it’s sausage,” a voice comes, soft, from behind Stiles.    “I don’t know what rocket science looks like.”  Stiles turns and bumps right up against Kurt’s blue-eyed gaze.

“Oh, someone made a funny!” Stiles smiles at him.  “I wasn’t actually talking about the sausage, though.”  He tips his head toward Robert, who is fighting with the twist tie on a bag of bagels at the end of the table.  “My roommate.  He- he was saying some presumptuous things about, well.  About you and the others.  I told him it didn’t sound that different from what I see every night in employee housing.  He didn’t’ get it.  I swear, for a guy who goes to one of the top science universities, he’s pretty stupid.”

“Well.  Book smarts and life smarts are two completely different things.”  Kurt reaches around Stiles to grab an apple and a banana.  He’s got a water bottle tucked into the crook of one arm, and is balancing a cereal packet and a Styrofoam cup of milk in one long-fingered hand.  “Keep fighting the good fight against stupid people.”  He salutes Stiles with his banana, and is gone before Stiles can say another word.

“I told you,” Robert calls from across the room where he’s sitting at the end of one long table.  “Weird.”

**

Kurt watches him from afar.  It’s the easiest and safest way to learn about him.  He also listens, because he’s been around long enough to know that the circus troupe is pretty much invisible to the seasonal employees.  He can linger in corners and out in the open, and nobody cares.

All the evidence points to Stiles being a typical college kid, but Kurt knows better.  He sees the way something tiny changes in Stiles’ being when he’s tired.  It’s not a big tell, but Kurt is kind of an expert in bodies and the silent language they speak, he _has_ to be if he’s going to be on top of his game.  It’s not a big tell, but it’s just enough.

He sees it also in the way Stiles hunches in on himself the slightest amount when there are too many people around, when he feels crowded or trapped.  In those moments, the mask slips, just a little bit, and the haunted look behind Stiles’ eyes returns.

Kurt waits and watches, and finally makes some casual contact.  Stiles doesn’t run, but he also doesn’t reach out. 

It’s okay.  Kurt can wait.  He has the distinct feeling that if spooked, Stiles will run far and fast.

**

Somehow Stiles isn’t surprised when it finally happens, when too many nights of nonexistent sleep because he’s afraid to wake his roommate up with his nightmares turns into something worse.

Because really, being an eighteen year old who wakes screaming most nights isn’t bad enough? 

Apparently _bad enough_ becomes _worse_ when you wander to lunch to find that everyone who never eats in the dining room has decided to do just that, and suddenly there are _people_.  People and noise and not enough room, and he fixes a plate anyway and tries to soothe his nerves by sitting against the wall, so at least he can _see_ everyone, only people move and walls don’t so he is, effectively, trapped.  He sits and stares at his plate, wills his limbs to move, his hands to work, his mouth to chew.  But nothing works.  He’s frozen there in his chair, staring at his plate.  Salad and corn and a hamburger on a too-small bun, ketchup like-

Ketchup like.

He feels himself starting to sink, losing the parts of himself that are in New Hampshire for the still-puzzling parts that he left behind in Beacon Hills, mourning Allison still a year later.

Ketchup like _blood_ , and oh god he’s going to be sick.

**

Kurt sees him going under from the middle of the too-long dinner line.  He watches Stiles’ eyes dilate, sees his chest move fast and shallow, trying to suck in breath.  He knows what it is to be stuck and unraveling in public.

He thrusts his plate at Mike and crosses the dining room in three long strides, crouches next to Stiles where he’s wedged his chair tight between table and wall.

“Stiles.”  It’s a command, low, and Stiles manages to hear him through whatever noise is in his head.  Stiles blinks and swallows.  Kurt tries again.

“Stiles.  Is it okay if I touch you?”

A head nod.  Minute motion, but it’s something.  He’s not lost in it yet, not sucked unreachable into the vortex of panic.

“Okay.”  Kurt puts a hand on Stiles’ knee under the table.  “Can you talk?”

A head shake.  “No?  Okay.  That’s okay.  Do you need to go outside?”

A head nod.

“Do you want me to come with you?  Is there anyone else you’d rather have help you?” 

Stiles swallows again, moves his mouth.  “N-n-no- _nobody_ ,” he finally manages to grind out, and it’s like a seal has been broken.  “Nobody knows.”

“Okay.  Come on, then.  Let’s get you outside.”

He ushers Stiles out the side door and deposits him on the low stone wall that runs along the walkway from the dining room to the main lodge.  “Water or something sugary?”

“Water,” Stiles gasps.  “Ice.”

Kurt waggles a finger at him.  “Don’t go anywhere.”

Stiles huffs out a labored laugh.  “Don’t.  Worry.”  He holds up a hand and Kurt can see it shaking.  “Can’t walk.  Might fall.  Embarrassed enough.”

“Oh, honey.”  Kurt drops onto the wall next to him.  “Don’t be embarrassed.  Given the fact that nobody else could be bothered to help you, I highly doubt they noticed at all.”  He rests his hand on Stiles’ arm.  “Assholes, all of them,” he mutters under his breath before standing again.  “I’m really going to go get you water now.  Seriously, don’t go anywhere.”

Stiles just nods, and Kurt stalks back into the dining room.  Mike catches up with him at the drink station, where he fills one cup with ice and water and the other with ice and Pepsi.  “Everything okay?” he asks gently.

“Mmm.  I think so.  Panic attack, it looks like.” 

Mike rubs Kurt’s shoulders.  His hands are warm and comforting through the fabric of Kurt’s t-shirt, and he wants nothing more than to lean into Mike’s body for a few blissful moments, but they don’t do that much around the seasonal workers.  Instead, he turns and pecks Mike discreetly on the cheek.  “I’ll meet you back at home,” he says.  “I don’t know how long this will take.”

“No worries.”  Mike waves him off.  “If I’m not in my room, I’ll be in the studio.”

Kurt weaves his way through people back out to where he left Stiles, who is leaning back on his hands with his face turned toward the sun.  He sets both cups next to Stiles, who doesn’t move.

“The weather is infinitely better here than back home,” he says.

Kurt laughs.  “You live in California.  How can the weather be better here?  Have you ever even _seen_ snow?”

“Beacon Hills is . . . dark.  There’s this forest.  It kind of sucks the life out of everything.  The sun feels really good.”

“Enjoy it.  By August it’ll be raining every day.  Are you okay?”

Stiles barks a short, bitter laugh.  “I haven’t been okay in over a year.  But in the short term, yes.  I’m okay right now.”

“Good.  How long have you been having them, the panic attacks?”

“The same over a year that I haven’t been okay.  There’s nightmares, too.  It’s just . . . what life is like, now.”  Stiles twists his hands in his lap, and Kurt wants to reach out and still them, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he holds the cup of water out and waits for Stiles to take it.  His hand is still shaky around the cup while he drinks, but his breathing has evened out.

“Now?” Kurt asks, curious.  “What was life like before?”

Stiles pauses.  The silence hangs heavy between them.  “That’s a bit of a loaded question.  I don’t know how to answer that.  Let’s just say that things used to be relatively normal and now they’re most definitely _not_.”

“I’m sorry.”  Kurt knows it’s the least helpful thing he can say, but he offers it anyway.  He holds his next words close, doesn’t want them to be trite or nothing more than a hollow offering.  “I’m – I’ve been through a lot, too.  If you ever want to talk, or get away from the crazy employee stuff, I’m out in the farmhouse with the rest of the troupe.  Anyone there can find me, if I’m not in my room or with Mike.”

Stiles nods.  “Is Mike your boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”  _Boyfriend_ is a little too simple a descriptor, but Kurt isn’t going to quibble with Stiles; it’s really a lot more complicated than Kurt likes to think about most of the time, layers of _best friends_ and _lovers_ and the complex dynamic of _creator_ and _muse_.  “It’s casual, but yes.”

They’re interrupted by Stiles’ watch beeping.  He pushes at a button and silences it.  “I have to work tonight.  I need to get going.”  He crumples both cups, tosses them in the trash, and starts to walk away.

“Stiles.”  Kurt calls to him, waits for him to turn back.

“What?”

“I meant it.  You can talk to me.”

Stiles shakes his head, a little sad and resigned.  “Thanks for offer, but I highly doubt that.”

“Why not?”

The smile he gives Kurt is twisted, something a little dark and miserable, apprehensive.  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.  It’s better if I don’t.  I just need to be normal.  I need to forget.”  His last words are choked, and he’s off and running – literally running – before Kurt can say anything else.

He lets him go.

He lets him go and then puts in a hard hour in the studio with Mike, twisting his body into impossible positions and letting himself be the inspiration for whatever plan Mike has in his head.

They shower together after, and pass the rest of the afternoon lazily in Mike’s bed.

“What’s the deal with that kid?” Mike asks, his fingers resting hot and soft against Kurt’s hip.

“He’s interesting,” Kurt says.

“By interesting you mean damaged.”

“No.  Well.  Maybe.”

Mike rests his head on Kurt’s shoulder.  “You can’t save everyone, K.”

Kurt cards his fingers through Mike’s hair, sweat-damp and spikey.  “I can try.  I can do better for someone else than anyone ever did for me.”

“What if he doesn’t need saving?”

“Then maybe he just needs a friend.”

Mike’s lips tease at Kurt’s collarbone.  Kurt tries to resist, but finally gives in and presses back against Mike’s mouth.  “Just don’t get in too deep, okay?  I don’t know if I can bear to pull you back again.  It hurts me, too, you know, when you go under.”

Kurt shakes his head.  “I’m not going to get lost, Mike.  I’m _not_.”

“Promise me.”  Mike is moving, pressing insistent against Kurt’s body.  Kurt lets him, lets Mike take him out of his head in all the best ways, slides and arches and bows until it feels like his skin is on fire.  “Promise me,” Mike chants over and over until Kurt is on the edge of breaking. 

Kurt lets go, feels himself shatter.  “I promise,” he whispers, hands clutching at Mike’s back.  “I promise.”


	3. Chapter 2

The dinner shift is ridiculously busy, which is the only reason Stiles is able to get through it.  His stomach turns over at the thought of eating anything when his dinner break arrives, so he takes extra tables and works through it.  At the end of the night he’s got a pocket full of the best tips of the season so far.  He’s just finishing up his side work when the kid who works the grill, not much older than he is, pushes two Styrofoam boxes into his hands. 

“You need to eat.  I hope you like stroganoff and chocolate cake.”

Stiles shakes his head at the boxes and blinks back unexpected tears.  “You didn’t have to—”

The kid – _Ben_ , Stiles reads on the nametag pinned to the side of his hat – holds his hands up.  “It wasn’t me.  Liam, the sous, he put it aside when we had a mix-up and pretty much ordered nobody to touch it, that it was for _that skinny-assed waiter who never eats_.”

Stiles cranes his neck in mock horror.  “My ass isn’t skinny!”

Ben laughs.  “Take the food.  Eat it, don’t eat it, doesn’t matter to me.  But if Liam asks, you ate every bite and loved it.  He’s touchy about his cooking.”

Stiles breathes in, letting the smell of beef and cream and onion flood his senses.  “It smells amazing.”  His stomach growls in approval.  “Apparently my stomach thinks it’s going to taste amazing, too.  Thank you.”

“No prob.  Do you—” Ben pauses before continuing.  “Would you like a ride or are you one of the weird people who _like_ walking in the dark?”

“A ride would be _awesome_.”

As usual, the open space around the employee dorms is busy with people and music.  Stiles’ room is empty and dark; Robert is likely out with his girlfriend.  He and Stiles don’t cross paths much, which is fine by Stiles.  He doesn’t really know how to be around people anymore, and the silence of an empty room is comfortable.

Once he’s showered and changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, he shoves his feet into his sneakers, grabs the two containers of food and his flashlight, and heads out for a walk.  He doesn’t have a plan, not really, he just doesn’t want to be around everyone tonight.  He doesn’t like the way it feels, all their eyes boring into him.  He can almost hear them wondering, wondering and judging, and he’d thought that at least here he wouldn’t be the weird kid.

He follows the pale beam of light over grass and dirt and navigates around roots and rocks.  He walks over ground that rises gently, so slight that he doesn’t notice until he crests the top of a hill and both land and sky are suddenly wide open.  Below, there’s a bonfire burning,  people huddled around it talking and singing.  Above, free from the trees, the sky is brilliant black and sparkling with stars.  It’s not so different from the outskirts of Beacon Hills, feels achingly familiar actually, and when Stiles breathes in there’s a pang of homesickness in his chest.

He didn’t come here on purpose, but now that he’s found it . . .

He practices in his head the whole way down the hill: _I’m looking for Kurt.  Is Kurt here?  I’m not crashing your party, I just need to talk to Kurt._

The words are there, waiting to tumble out of his mouth, when a voice comes out of the dark somewhere to his left.  “Stiles?”

Stiles startles, drops his flashlight, juggles the food containers. 

And shrieks like a pterodactyl.

“You _scared_ me!  Didn’t anyone teach you not to sneak up on people?  Nothing good ever jumps out of the dark.”  He can feel his heart racing, his breathing start to go. 

“I’m sorry.  Are you alright?”

Stiles wants to stamp his foot like a toddler having an epic tantrum, but he restrains himself.  His father would be proud.  “What do _you_ think?”

Kurt chokes.  Stiles knows he’s trying not to laugh, but it peeks through under his words.  “I’m really sorry.  I thought you saw me.”

“It’s pitch freaking _black_ out here.  And you’re stealthy.”  The shock is starting to wear off, his heart rate is creeping back to normal.  He can feel Kurt shrug next to him.  In the dark, the movement is barely visible.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles pushes the containers out in the direction he _thinks_ Kurt’s hands are.  “Apparently everyone who works the line thinks I need feeding.  Stroganoff and chocolate cake.  I wasn’t really looking for anything except a quiet place to eat, and I ended up here . . .”

“And it’s not exactly quiet here.”

“No.”  Stiles doesn’t know how to say that it’s okay, that maybe this is _better_ than quiet, but he does know how to extend an invitation.  “The stroganoff isn’t really _hot_ anymore, but would you like to share with me?”

“I’d like that a lot, actually.”

**

Kurt pokes his plastic fork into the stroganoff and manages to snag a bite with both noodles and meat.  “This is really good.  Thanks for sharing.”

He watches Stiles, whose eyes are on the bonfire and the crowd around it.  “I’m not crazy,” he says.  “I know what people think.  I don’t blame you for thinking that.”

Kurt holds his hands up, empty fork between his fingers.  “I didn’t say you were.”

Stiles stammers.  “I- I’m sorry.  I just got used to people thinking I’m . . .” He taps the side of his head.  “Certifiable.”

“Why?”

The laugh Stiles lets out is tinged with bitterness.  “Apparently sane people don’t voluntarily check themselves into psych hospitals.”

“I don’t know,” Kurt says around another mouthful of pasta.  “I don’t see anything wrong with asking for help when you need it.” 

In the dim of the porch light, Kurt watches Stiles’ face change.  He stares at Kurt, _hard_ , like he’s trying to see to the back of Kurt’s brain.  His question comes, hushed and careful.  “Did you?”

“No.” Kurt shakes his head.  “I should have, but I didn’t.  Maybe things would have been better, I don’t know.”

“What did you do?”

Kurt snorts indelicately.  “I ran away and joined the circus.”

“And did it help?”

Kurt drops his fork into the empty noodle container.  “The jury is still out on that one.  I sleep and I perform, and I eat.  I have Mike.  Most of the time I’m practicing happy, but that’s more than what I had when I came here.  You?”

“Panic attacks and nightmares, but I’m not possessed by a thousand year Japanese trickster spirit anymore.”

“That’s something that happens?”  Because wow, Kurt has seen and heard some strange stuff over the years; he’s in the _circus_ , after all, but _trickster spirit_ and _possession_?

Stiles scoffs.  “You have _no_ idea.”

Kurt tilts his head.  “So tell me.  But first, hand over that cake.  I have a feeling I’m going to need chocolate for this.”

Stiles pushes the container across the wood.  “You might need more than chocolate.”

**

On some level, it’s not so hard to believe, werewolves and animal spirits and powerful Druids.  Myths and tall tales have origins in reality, after all.  Kurt listens, is careful not to react when every part of him wants to scream at a universe that continually loads unimaginable burdens onto the backs of _children_.

“It was so strange,” Stiles says, rubbing at his eyes like he wants to rub the memory away.  “I wasn’t me, but I could still feel _part_ of me inside the Nogitsune.  I _knew_ what . . . what _that thing_ was doing to people, but I couldn’t stop it.  I _hurt_ people, and somehow everyone is okay with it because it _‘wasn’t really_ you _, Stiles’_.  But then Allison died, trying to save me.”  He shakes his head.  “No.  Allison was _murdered_ trying to save me, and I’m not sure Scott has ever forgiven me for it.”

“You love him.”  Kurt can hear it in Stiles’ voice.  He doesn’t need to ask.

“I- no.  Yes.  No.  I mean, yes.  He’s like my brother.  We’ve been friends since we were practically babies.  And then his dad left and my mom died, and that made it more.”  Stiles sniffles.  “That’s why it hurts so much, knowing that it’s my fault the love of his life is dead.”

“Brothers, blood or not, that’s not an easy bond to break.  But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Maybe.  Everyone seems to think so.  Not about Scott, or me and Scott.  Just about me.”

“Outcome uncertain?” Kurt asks, and Stiles laughs.

“Yeah.  All I know is this: I’ve been in love with Lydia and Scott both since we were all kids.  I don’t know what it means as far as anything else is concerned.”

Kurt watches Stiles lick the last of the chocolate frosting from his fork.  He shifts his gaze to where the fire is winding down, where Mike is sitting against the base of the big oak tree with Kurt’s acrobat partner Drea nestled in his lap.  Kurt can see the shadow of his hand moving, carding through her ginger curls.

Kurt can tell that he’ll be sleeping alone tonight.

He stands and arches his back to stretch after sitting so long.  Then he holds out his hand to Stiles and grins at him.  “Have you ever been night swimming?”

**

Stiles’ heart beats in time with his footsteps.  He’s sure that his hand is sweaty in Kurt’s.  He tries twice to pull it back, but Kurt holds fast. 

“It’s tricky up here,” Kurt says the second time.  “I don’t want to lose you or have you accidentally maim yourself.”

“Okay,” Stiles sighs.  _He’s_ not a fan of accidental maiming, either, so he follows Kurt and doesn’t let go.  There are so many things he wants to know, questions he wants to ask Kurt, but something tells him that the dark woods isn’t the place.  Instead, he just listens to the night, to their footsteps and breathing and the breeze in the trees and the crickets singing.

The path dips and then rises again, twists through a knot of trees, and then opens onto a sand beach.  Stiles can see a square of white bobbers reflecting the moonlight, roping off the shallows.  The wooden dock stretches into the water like an arm, and he can hear the water lapping gently at the shore.

Kurt kicks his shoes off, tugs and twists until he’s stripped off socks and shorts and shirt and is standing in the sand in his boxer briefs.

Stiles has spent enough time in locker rooms to not be embarrassed.  He sheds his clothes too, and races toward the water before he can change his mind.  He’s prepared for it to be cold, but it’s surprisingly warm.  He ducks under the rope, then sets off toward the square raft floating out in the middle of the lake.  It’s been a long time since he’s gone swimming; he gave up the rec team after seventh grade in favor of lacrosse, though he was a better swimmer at twelve than he’ll ever be a lacrosse player.  Even so, he settles easily into _breathe every four strokes_ and is hauling himself onto the raft before Kurt even clears the rope. 

“Not a swimmer, huh?” he calls, and his voice echoes off the water.

“I’m pretty good, actually, but I sometimes have this nightmare about getting tangled in the rope.  It’s silly, I know, but I’m always careful until I get into the deeper water.”

“It’s not silly,” Stiles reassures him.  He watches Kurt move carefully, lifting the rope and sliding under it.  Once he’s away from it, he takes a breath and goes under.  Stiles follows the pale streak of his body just under the surface of the water.  When Kurt surfaces, barely breathing heavily at all, Stiles offers him a hand up onto the raft.  “It’s not silly,” he repeats.  “There are reasons why we’re afraid of certain things.”  _Like things that used to only exist in nightmares because there was no way they were real._

Stiles tucks his knees into his chest in an effort to keep warm; the water cooling on his skin has left goose bumps behind. 

“I used to be afraid of flying,” Kurt says, walking to the edge of the raft and then turning around so he’s facing Stiles.  “I cried the first time I had to flip in tumbling class.”  He rises on his toes, lifts his arms.  Stiles sees his chest hitch with the slightest intake of breath, and then he’s gone, flipping twice and then sliding into the water, stretched out and smooth, with barely a splash.

Stiles feels unexpected yearning coil hot in his belly.  He’d thought the days of feeling anything but numb grief and longing for absent friends were behind him, which is why the burn of wanting is such a surprise.  Kurt stays in the water below him, treading water.  Stiles stares at his face, at how open and joy-filled it is.

“Teach me,” he says impulsively.  “I want to learn how to fly.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there with this story while I got my life together over the summer. 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for flashbacks, nightmares, and allusions to non-consensual sexual contact.

Kurt sleeps alone in the few brief hours before sunrise, and he wakes screaming for the first time in years.  It’s not the tangled in rope dream that causes it, though that _is_ the dream that started the melting of one nightmare into another.  When Kurt wakes with _no_ on his lips, heart racing and body shaking, it’s to the sensation of hands: pushing, pulling, leaving bruises and knocking him into metal and wood.  The way his mother’s hand was always soft in his hair when she sang him to sleep at night.  His father’s hand, limp in his own, in the hours before he died.  The too-hard too-strong hands of a friend of his foster brother, holding him down down down into a lumpy futon mattress at a house party, the basement dark around them while music pulsed and shook the floor above. 

It had taken months, when he’d first gotten to the circus school, to stop waking up like that, terror coursing through him.  It had taken even longer to let anyone touch or soothe him.  The whole first year, Mike would just sit up in his bed and patiently tell Kurt stories about living in Hong Kong until he was five, about his grandmother who moved with his family to San Francisco who used to care for him after school.  What it was like to learn English, and learning to dance and tumble, the way movement became his voice when he didn’t have the words.

Kurt has been certain that those memories were behind him, exorcised in classes and performances and under Mike’s strong and tender hands.  He doesn’t fear touch anymore, doesn’t startle at banging and shouting, and doesn’t turn inward when someone plays music too loud.  He’s not _that boy_ , now.  He’s a man, a good strong brave man.  His wounds are pale scars.

Something about Stiles makes him remember, brings back smell and sound and, god help him, touch.  He can feel the press of his ghosts in the room, and he _has_ to get out of there. 

He changes into workout clothes, shoves his feet into sneakers, and heads out for a run.  He punishes his body, tries to clear his head in the relentless pounding of his feet on dirt, but he can hear their voices.  _Baby, my Kurt, kid, son_ , the good words batter him until they’re buried under _fairy, faggot, queer, tease, come on I know you want it, if you tell anyone I’ll fucking kill you._

But he _didn’t_ want it, and he has to stop, has to dry heave along the side of the path the way he’d thrown up in the downstairs bathroom at Nathan Briggs’ party, when he could still feel the press of an unwanted body against him, could smell cheap cologne and taste stale beer, bitter on his tongue.

He shudders, stands, and steadies himself with a hand on the slim trunk of a birch tree.  He wipes tears off his cheeks, takes a handful of deep breaths, and sets off again.  He doesn’t have a destination, just the desire to rid his head and his body of the memories.

He follows the dirt trail until he reaches the road, runs past the McIntire apple orchard and the small Logan hay field.  He stops for a brief rest just before the bridge, thinking about continuing on into town for a brief moment before his legs start shaking and he decides to head back.  Slowly.

His legs give up halfway up the hill.  One minute he’s standing, ready to take a step, the next he’s flat on his ass in the dirt.  Simply because there’s nothing else to do, he laughs until he cries.  Once his legs stop feeling like jelly, he stands cautiously and makes his careful way to the dining room. 

“You’re early,” one of the cooks scowls at him from over a baking sheet filled with biscuits. 

“I know,” Kurt replies.  “I pushed myself a little hard on my run.  I need some juice before I pass out in the middle of the kitchen.”

“It’s okay,” Kurt hears from the server’s prep area.  “I’ll take care of him.”

“Hi.”  Kurt smiles, and waves weakly. 

“For fuck’s sake, sit down before you fall down.”  Stiles ushers him into the dining room. 

“Too late.”  Kurt drops into a chair.  “I already did that.  Outside.”

Stiles tilts his head and stares at Kurt.  “Excuse my French but you look like . . .”  He bites his lip, shakes his head.  “You look like you’ve been possessed by a trickster spirit,” he finishes with an impish grin.

“Fuck you.”

Stiles throws his hands up and backs away a step.  “Hostility.  Okay.  I can do that.  I just know of what I speak, is all.”  He looks around, mutters a few choice curses under his breath, and points at the door.  “I’m just—I’m gonna—there’s no freaking food in here.  I’m gonna fix that.  Don’t go anywhere.”

Kurt manages to twist his lips into a half-smile.  “That’s supposed to be my line.”

Stiles keeps walking, but flips Kurt off behind his back as he heads out the door.  While he waits, Kurt traces the red and white checks on the plastic tablecloth with his finger. 

Stiles returns with a plate of fake eggs, French toast, and sausage links, which he sets in front of Kurt.  “Sorry, there wasn’t any bacon.  The shipment comes in later this morning, so you’re stuck with sausage.  Unless you’re vegetarian.  Shit.  You’re not, are you?”

Kurt lifts his eyes from the tablecloth.  “Not vegetarian.  Thank you,” he whispers.  He doesn’t trust his voice, not since his legs are still shaking under the table.

“What happened?”  Stiles pulls out the chair next to Kurt, drops into it, and immediately tilts it up onto the back legs.

“Ran too far, too hard,” Kurt mumbles around a mouthful of egg.  The food is fresh and hot, not the steam-tabled stuff they put out for the employees.  “Couldn’t sleep.”  He’s telling it out of order, knows he should stop and backtrack, but his brain is still bouncing almost as much as his knees.  “Nightmares.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly, and Kurt looks right at him for the first time, sees the shadows under his eyes and the way his hands are trembling lightly.

“I’m just not used to people getting it,” he says.  “Mike is the only one who knows, and _he_ doesn’t even know the whole story.  Just the nightmares.  They were particularly vicious when I first got here.  There.”  He shakes his head and shovels another forkful of egg into his mouth.  “These are good, for fake egg.”  God, he wishes he could just talk and have it be linear, but his brain can’t stop backtracking on itself, and he’s getting confused trying to follow his own thoughts. 

“Oh, those are for-real scrambled eggs.  I think the breakfast grill cook wants to get in my pants,” Stiles says, deadpan. 

Kurt chokes and tries not to blow egg out his nose.  When he’s done wheezing, he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.  “You’re awful.”

Stiles shrugs.  “That’s what my dad always tells me.  Awful, incorrigible, refuses to follow directions.  But I do help him solve murders, so he keeps me around.”  Deadpan again.

This time, Kurt just shakes his head and keeps eating. 

He hits bottom with half a sausage link and barely a quarter of a piece of French toast left on his plate.  He pushes it to the middle of the table and leans on his elbow.  “I think my brain has stopped eating itself.  Let me try this again.  I had nightmares last night, so I went out for a run, and I couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it.  I just kept running and running and running, and then I fell.”

“Well that sounds epically stupid,” Stiles blurts out, and Kurt stares at him.

“Do you even _have_ a filter?”

“Nope.”  Stiles shakes his head.  “That’s why all my teachers hated me.”

Kurt gives in and laughs because he doesn’t know what else to do.  “Thank you for the breakfast,” Kurt says, softly.  “Can I- I’d like to repay the favor.  Would you like another diving lesson this afternoon?”

Kurt thinks for a minute that Stiles is going to turn him down, but his whispered _yes_ echoes in the silence.  “Or,” Stiles says, glancing around furtively, “I could call in a favor or three and we could go now.”

“The lake is really cold in the morning, trust me.”

“So we’ll do something else.”  Stiles throws his hands into the air.  “You could show me what you do in that circus of yours.  Or something.”

Kurt thinks for a minute.  There’s nothing he _has_ to do, when the troupe is in summer residence, outside of teaching the occasional kids’ tumbling class, maintain his daily workout schedule, and be Mike’s test case for new acrobatic routines.  He’s done his run, and he’ll get his stretching in when he teaches one of those classes before lunch.  As for Mike, Kurt suspects he’ll be otherwise occupied for at least the rest of the morning.   

“How are you with kids?” he asks Stiles.  It’s reckless, but Kurt doesn’t really feel like being alone.

“Why?”  Stiles stares at him, discomfort heavy on his face.

“I have to teach later this morning.  It helps to have an extra set of hands.”

“You need me to be your wrangler.”

“I need you to be my wrangler.  Consider it your payment for a third diving lesson.”

“I can wrangle with the best of them.  I mean, usually I’m wrangling werewolves.  Or my father.  Kids can’t be that hard, can they?”

Kurt throws his head back and howls with laughter.


End file.
